


To Our Weakness, No Stranger

by TheLifeOfEmm



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Beating, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rating May Change, Shock, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21643297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm
Summary: Fills for the Valvert Advent Whump 2019 prompts; each chapter is intended as a one-shot. May eventually write more of these.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 16
Kudos: 55
Collections: Valvert Whump Advent 2019





	1. Shock

**Author's Note:**

> I will fill this out more completely later but I woke up at 4 am for a flight and thus have been awake for 19.5 hours and literally cannot think straight anymore. Incidentally, if chapter one is garbage, it is for the same reason.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: symptoms of Acute Stress Disorder and/or panic attacks.

_ “Inspector Javert,” said Valjean, “grant me yet another favor.” _

_ “What is it?” demanded Javert roughly. _

_ “Let me go home for one instant. Then you shall do whatever you like with me.” _

_ Javert remained silent for a few moments, with his chin drawn back into the collar of his great-coat, then he lowered the glass and front: _

_ “Driver,” said he, “Rue de l’Homme Armé, No. 7.” _

* * *

Jean Valjean sat in his seat, a chilling numbness settling over him through which even the swaying of the carriage failed to penetrate. He scarcely noticed as he was jostled to and fro, staring straight ahead.

He wanted but little: to set his affairs in order for Cosette, to tell her what was become of Marius, to finish what he had started. Beyond that—

Shuddering, Valjean felt himself shaken to the core. Beyond that, he belonged to the custody of Javert, and the policeman would no sooner steer him into a station than Valjean would be returned to the heat and the dust and the never-ending anguish. The very thought filled him with a quiet despair; he could feel the bite of the chain and the lash like icy needles in his skin, as close and familiar as the weight of a child’s hand in his own.

Valjean carried exhaustion on his back like an Atlas; it bore down on him, buckling his grip and making him tremble. It was the feeling of gauze in his mind, wrapping and tangling around every thought until it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began. The mud drying on his skin might have been swarms of stinging ants for all he could tell, a maddening itch that nevertheless he raised no hand to remedy. Valjean was motionless as he waited across from Javert, and with every bump of the carriage a little more of his freedom slipped away.

Eventually, they came to a stop. Valjean did not so much as raise his head to see where they were. His focus seemed to spiral: one moment it was on his present circumstance; the next it flitted to Cosette as a girl, or the harrowing message imprinted on her blotter; the next it found itself in the prison hulks of Toulon, to which he would be returning shortly. His breath stuttered around the idea.

Javert indicated the carriage door. “Well?”

Slowly, Valjean staggered upright, holding on to the wall for support. The fog in his head seemed translated to his limbs, weighing him down. His hands, he realized distantly, were shaking so severely they could scarcely grip the door handle. At last, he dismounted, finding that the ground did not quite heave under his feet as he thought it might. Behind him, Javert emerged like a bat wrapped in his coat to converse with the driver, but Valjean gazed straight ahead as he had since delivering Marius.

They were on the Rue de l’Homme Armé. This realization filtered through the fog like the percolation of water through sand, slowly at first, then all at once. It ought to have been a relief, but as it was he felt nothing, nothing but the numbness and the strange, erratic hammering of his heart. His surroundings felt more like a dream than reality.

Dimly, the clop of hooves told Valjean that the Inspector had dismissed the carriage. There were two stations close at hand; no doubt Javert intended to walk him there, though it scarcely even mattered anymore. For all that Valjean cared, it might have been happening to someone else, far removed from himself. He was like a spectator in his own life. And, like a spectator, Valjean could not manage to lift a finger even to thereby change the outcome.

A shadow fell over him as Javert appeared at his shoulder. “Come,” the Inspector said gruffly, seizing his wrist as though to pull him along.

The force of long fingers grasping his person wrenched Valjean back into the present as the entire world collapsed into that singular point of contact. The long sleepless nights, the horror of civil war, the purgatory of the sewers, the dreadful reunion on the riverbank—a man would have to be of titan blood to endure it. Valjean heard himself gasp as an electric shock ran from the base of his skull to the tips of his toes, and then the street swayed and distorted as his legs gave out from under him.

The next thing he knew, Valjean was kneeling on the cobblestones breathing heavily. Vacant, he stared into the neatly fitted blocks of stone and tried to puzzle out how he had come to be there, but his heart was beating very quickly and it was difficult to think. Above him, he heard:

“The deuce? Stand up at once.”

The words impinged on his ears, but Valjean could scarcely begin to make sense of them, much less coerce his limbs into obeying. He rested on his knees, the damp seeping through his filthy trousers.

Before him, Valjean was vaguely conscious of Javert bending down. The Inspector took hold of his shoulder, pulling his face forward that he might examine it, but all that Valjean saw was the cold, dark interior of a prison cell. Javert’s hand was shaking—or perhaps it was Valjean himself who trembled. 

“What the devil - Valjean?” The Inspector bit the words out like each one cost him greatly. Valjean heard as if from very far away; still, it was not enough to rouse him. 

Getting to his feet, Javert began to pace. He muttered to himself, sharp, biting words that nevertheless were entirely incomprehensible. Had Valjean been in his right mind to listen, it would have been clear that a great internal debate was taking place before him; but he was not, and it was all Valjean could do to remain focused on the cobblestones before him. Once more he felt the crushing weight of the sewer mire on his chest, sucking and dragging him down. Soon it would overcome him completely, and then he would be lost, they would all be lost...

Valjean did not realize he was moving until Javert was already hauling him to his feet, the debate apparently having been settled at last. 

“It is not seemly for a man to lie about in the street having a fit,” the Inspector grunted. “You might at least have waited until you were indoors.”

Valjean did not resist, as he had not all night. He had made a promise, and he intended to keep it. It was only when his half-lidded eyes focused on the No. 7 beside the door that Valjean began to realize where he was: not at the station house, nor before the door of a magistrate, but in front of his rooms.

Javert’s knock shattered the quiet like a gunshot. The door creaked open to reveal the porter, half dressed and befuddled, as Javert said clearly, “Here is your tenant, and the police. Admit us.”

They were admitted. Valjean’s feet dragged over the threshold as Javert barged without apology into his small apartment, shoving him bodily into a wooden chair.

“You are an infuriating man,” said Javert.

Valjean stared blankly at the tabletop.

“I have just paid the driver four Napoleons,” the Inspector continued, apparently aware that Valjean would not reply, yet speaking anyway. “I have not the means to summon a doctor, and if I did, every doctor in the city would say he is waist deep in blood tonight already.” 

He lapsed into a thoughtful silence. 

“Your nerves will have to mend themselves,” Javert concluded, and he sat at the table opposite, studying Valjean through thick, furrowed brows.

Valjean blinked dazedly. Little of Javert’s speech registered with him, but he recognized the surroundings as his own. The knowledge offered a scant comfort as his eyes drifted shut, pressed into closing by fatigue and this sudden weakness of the body. His final thought was for Javert, who observed with the same unreadable demeanor as Valjean’s chin hit his chest.

The thought was merely this: to wonder if, come morning, Javert would be there still to cart him away, or whether he would wake to find the house desolate and empty. Valjean did not dare to hope he might wake as he slept, to find Javert watching over his rest.

Then darkness took him, and Valjean knew nothing more.


	2. Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for this chapter: mild descriptions of physical injury, beaten up
> 
> Still writing fast and loose here so I can at least produce _something_ during the end-of-semester madness.

Slumped against the wall, Inspector Javert panted for breath. His flanks heaved and a dribble of blood trickled down his chin, but his eyes were fixed straight ahead. 

“Go on, then.” 

The man to Javert’s left tightened his grip on the Inspector’s arm as he continued.

“You said you could make him talk.”

There was another man on his right, pinning him in place. It was no use struggling; Javert had already tried, and been dealt the consequences. His ribs were battered, sore in places that would no doubt be showing purple by morning, and if the suggestion in the thug’s words were any indication, his situation was not about to improve. Nevertheless, Javert’s attention remained on the final member of their company, the man standing halfway across the room.

Jean Valjean looked levelly at Javert and said, “Good evening, Inspector.”

“Valjean,” Javert sneered, gritting his teeth as the effort of talking hurt his throat and his chest. “Like always finds like. What do you think you’re playing at?”

Of course, he knew the answer very well; the investigation had been proceeding according to plan until their blind was infiltrated by the very gang of cutthroats Javert had hoped to apprehend. His twin pistols put two men on the floor, and Valjean’s fist a third, but before the Inspector could reload they were outnumbered. Now thanks to some very quick talking on Valjean’s part they were here—and Javert was darkly amused to see that Valjean had assigned him the role of prisoner in this particular ploy.

Taking a step forward, Valjean’s eyes roamed over Javert’s beaten frame. The Inspector searched his face for any sign of derision or pleasure, but if the ex-con enjoyed seeing Javert like this, he hid it well. Instead, Valjean was utterly expressionless as he said, “It will go better for you to cooperate. Tell these gentlemen what Gisquet knows.”

“Go to hell,” Javert spat, and was rewarded with the stirrings of dismay in Valjean’s eyes as the man glanced between their two captors. It was obvious what it was Valjean had to do, what it was going to take to make these two drop him; the key was not to let them know it was all deliberate.

The thug on the right chuckled. “So much for the loyalty of the Sûreté. Have at it, we’ll hold him still for you.”

Javert could read the hesitation in the set of Valjean’s mouth. All very well for him to get them into this mess and then be unable to follow through on it, the Inspector thought crossly. Probably the man would later make some excuse of not wanting to hurt him, as though both their lives were not in greater danger the longer they spent in this pair’s custody.

Aloud, Javert said, “I did not take you for a coward, two-four-six-oh—”

A vein twitched in Valjean’s jaw. Before the Inspector could finish, he was swinging, and pain exploded across the side of Javert’s face as the man’s knuckles connected with his chin. 

It was incredibly disorienting. Javert’s eyes seemed to rattle in their sockets as his head wrenched around, hot and cold and numb and agony all jarring his nerves at once. He could scarcely even see straight and so was unprepared when Valjean hit him again, straight in the soft tissue below his ribs. The air in Javert’s lungs vacated his chest with a harsh gasp, his legs turning immediately to jelly as Valjean landed the blows with the speed and accuracy of a man who has been to prison. 

The thugs released their hold; Javert tumbled to the ground, unable to catch his breath or his balance. One of the men—in that moment, Javert could not say who—kicked at the same aching spot, and for a minute his vision went black. There was conversation but he could make no sense of it, could only lie unmoving on the flagstone and try to find his way back to consciousness. 

When he blinked the pain-driven tears from his eyes, Javert found the small chamber quiet. He raised his head, groaning, to be met with Valjean’s expression of concern. The Inspector groaned again, this time in irritation, as Valjean helped him to sit up.

“You bastard,” Javert grunted. “For a man who objects to violence, you hit harder than a drunkard in a tavern brawl.”

“I’m sorry,” said Valjean genuinely. “I thought we had agreed you wouldn’t call me that.”

The Inspector winced, leaning heavily on Valjean as he picked himself up. “I might have rethought the idea had I realized it would be quite so inspiring.”

Looking around, he beheld the two brigands lying on the floor, out cold. 

“About time,” he muttered. “Come,” he added, limping towards the door. “We need to find my pistols.”

Valjean shook his head, but followed silently after.


End file.
